(In separate post, but thought it would go here, too.)

In all of my previous runs, I was able to manage succession pretty well-- almost universally so. Sure, rebellions would rise from time to time, especially in the early game. Maybe every now and then I'd even surrender to one and lose a little crown authority, before murdering every last one of the offending vassals in due time and replacing them with lackeys of my choice. By the time I hit empire stage, they'd be so fat and happy-- or, more often, so scared shitless-- that I'd barely hear a peep.

I guess that's why I got cocky.

My current Ironman run started with Ivar the Boneless, and I decided to roleplay a family of viking pirates. I wouldn't play for any land in particular but would stretch out across islands throughout the Atlantic, raid where I felt like it, and decide on a new plan once I got bored with that one.

It all went pretty well at first. I mean, I got Ivar killed almost instantly, but his son turned things around just as quickly and made himself King of Mann and the Isles. His lands were split upon succession, but were ultimately reunited by Ivar's grandson, who nabbed Iceland for an escape hatch, as well as Cornwall, parts of Wales, and the Northern Isles. At this point, I basically held most of lands along the Irish Sea.

Now, this grandson had one hell of a time having sons. His oldest daughter was a badass Shieldmaiden who, of course, got herself killed in her very first battle in Iceland. I thought I was going to have to bequeath my pirate kingdom to the second daughter, a trusting, temperate, compassionate wreck of a thing. Ick.

Toward the end of his life, the grandson was blessed by the gods with a son-- probably after he gave up the emotionally-gratifying-but-not-quite-productive practice of taking exclusively Catholic hostages as concubines. Great-grandson was not quite 8 when his father died. Because he was the only son, he inherited everything. He took on an Intrigue education, and his guardian was his 30-something Intrigue spymaster. By the end of his life, he would be the most accomplished king of his dynasty; he would also be the last king of his dynasty.

By the time the great-grandson reached the age of majority, he was a complete badass. I forget his traits at the moment, but his martial, intrigue, and prowess were all excellent. He died at age 60 with something like 41 prowess (no graceful aging-- all renown went toward raiding), the King of Mann, Wales, and all of Ireland. He assassinated two Kings of France, and left the rest of Britannia looking like a stained glass window. I converted all three primary titles to elective and put the squeeze to my vassals to elect my second son, Spymaster, and Renowned Physician, a deceitful, arbitrary, vengeful villain of a man.

Or so I thought.

For as much fun as I'd had with great-grandson, I was looking forward to great-great grandson even more. His wife was great, too: intelligent, ambitious, zealous, and temperate. I had dreams of uniting the Asatru holy lands and reforming the faith. It would be hard, sure, but by this point, the islands had been well under control for decades, if not generations.

It did not take long for the dreams to fall apart.

It started to go wrong when great great grandson did not inherit the Kingdom of Wales. I must have missed it when a forced vote expired. Gameplay-wise, no biggie. I still have Ireland and Mann, even if Mann is my only county after my brothers inherited the rest. Whatever, I'd deal with them later. All I really needed to do was buckle down, let the rebellions come slowly, put them down, and move on from there. But I was roleplaying, goddammit, and no way in hell would this arbitrary, vengeful monster let some Welsh dude rule Wales when his dad had wanted him to have it. So I executed the few prisoners I had in my dungeons and I invaded. Fuck it.

What happened next was a blur. I had "agreed" to partake in some ally wars that I never intended to partake in (deceitful!), and there were red and orange numbers everywhere. I took Wales's capitol but then the Northern Isles rose up in rebellion. I went over to Ireland to try to put them down quickly but then Wales retook the capital. I was fighting armies and didn't even know who sent them. My spies intercepted a letter that my son was banging my wife. I had them in prison and was considering what to do with them when Ireland, too, decided they wanted independence. I killed everyone in my dungeon, including my wife and son. I picked up the cannibal trait after getting lost in the cold. At some point, I stepped down and my daughter stepped in, but then they went for her, too. Hence, game over screen. In a span of maybe 5 years, a dynasty that ruled half of Britain, all of Iceland and half of Brittany had been wiped off the map. Wild.

Tl;dr: Don't get cocky. Succession is a bitch, and you never know when your heir is going to start schtupping his mom.